Quotes from Ellis Peters

God resolves all given time," said Cai philosophically and trudged away into darkness. And Cadfael returned along the path with the uncomfortable feeling that God, nevertheless, required a little help from men, and what he mostly got was hindrance.

Rhisiart was a big, bluff, hearty-looking man of about fifty, high-coloured and dark-haired, with a short, grizzled beard, and bold features that could be merry or choleric, fierce or jovial, but were far too expressive ever to be secretive or mean.

I think truth, like the burgeoning of a bulb under the soil, however deeply sown, will make its way to the light." "And there is nothing we can do to hasten it," said Pernel, and heaved a resigned sigh. "At present, nothing but wait." "And pray, perhaps?" she said.

The manifold gifts of God are there to be delighted in, to fall short of joy would be ingratitude.

Usually he overdid things, this time he got it right, or as right as something only equivocally right in itself can be got.

When you have done everything else, perfecting a conventual herb-garden is a fine and satisfying thing to do.

In my measure there's little to choose between two such monarchs, but much to be said for keeping a man's fealty and word.

There has many a man gone through that gate without a safe-conduct, who will reach heaven ahead of some who were escorted through with absolution and ceremony, and had their affairs in order. Kings and princes of the church may find shepherds and serfs preferred before them, and some who claim they have done great good may have to give place to poor wretches who have done wrong and acknowledge it, and have tried to make amends." Brother Mark sat listening

Well, a man can but hold fast to what he believes right, and even the opponent he baulks should value him for that.

Traffic with the world is laid upon us for chastening, and for the testing of our vocation. The grace of God is not endangered by the follies or the wickedness of men.

A passionate soul, who asks too much of himself, and under-values what he gives.

for every untimely death, every man cut down in his vigour and strength without time for repentance and reparation, is one corpse too many.

Chroniclers can edit names out as easily as visionaries can noise them abroad.

There has many a man gone through that gate without a safe-conduct, who will reach heaven ahead of some who were escorted through with absolution and ceremony, and had their affairs in order. Kings and princes of the church may find shepherds and serfs preferred before them, and some who claim they have done great good may have to give place to poor wretches who have done wrong and acknowledge it, and have tried to make amends.

was there in the hut, together with her cloak and habit. And hidden! And she taken away from that place

We think we have sound relationships,' said George, answering the doubt beyond doubt, 'and suddenly there's a word said or a thing done, so shatteringly out of key that you find yourself alone, and know you've never actually touched your partner at any point, or said a word in the same language. And it doesn't always even absolve you from loving, when it happens. That's the hell of it.

Did you ever feel, Hugh, that it might be better to let even ill alone, wondered Cadfael ruefully, rather than let loose worse?

I think there are some who live on a knife-edge in the soul, and at times are driven to hurl themselves into the air, at the mercy of heaven or hell which way to fall.

Well, you can fairly claim the day hasn't been wasted,' owned Cadfael generously, 'if something's been learned.

There was, after all, a great deal of human happiness in the world, even a world so torn and mangled with conflict, cruelty and greed. So it had always been, and always would be. And so be it, provided the indomitable spark of joy never went out.

The King's court was in no hurry to return to England, that late autumn of 1120, even though the fighting, somewhat desultory in these last stages, was long over.

Brother Cadfael was standing in the middle of his walled herb-garden, looking pensively

enough to excite the artist in any man.

worn to cobweb fragility, like the skins of very old men, that bruise and stain at the mere brushing of the breeze, and flower into brown blotches as the leaves into rotting gold. The colours of late autumn are the colours of the sunset: the farewell of the year and the farewell of the day. And of the life of man? Well, if it ends in a flourish of gold, that is no bad ending.